


it's okay not to be okay

by angelica_barnes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Falling In Love, Healing, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Verbal Abuse, i am really super proud of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 18:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14455536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelica_barnes/pseuds/angelica_barnes
Summary: zayn's mom tells him things and he doesn't know why and she's so mean to him but then again he's never had any friends before so how could he know the meaning between mean and normal well he doesn't and so he listens.until liam and louis and harry and niall come along and liam is so kind and they fall so in love and everything turns out okay even though zayn still isn't.





	it's okay not to be okay

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "Who You Are" by Jessie J
> 
> based off :
> 
> Underneath - Adam Lambert  
> Perfect - Maia Mayor

“Chin up, boy,” his mama always said. “Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let them see how much it hurts.”

And Zayn had listened. Eight years old and living in a dump of a house, with three sisters and a mom who was too damaged for even Zayn to trust. But still, he was naive back then, and what she said went, just like anything goes.

A smile became his permanent expression, even if the stars in his eyes had been long gone. He smiled, teeth and lips and a stuck-out tongue, and people bought it as if he was selling diamonds. He fell apart, bruised heart from breaks and slashes, and no one noticed.

And then there was Tired Eyes, “Hi. I’m Liam.” He was beautiful, his skin soft and touch gentle as he shook Zayn’s hand. Zayn had somehow let his facade fall, but his panic slipped away within seconds; this boy made him feel  _ safe _ .

“I’m Zayn,” he’d whispered, and Liam had wordlessly drawn him in for a hug; Zayn’s tears soaked through Liam’s shirt and the boy rocked him until he could plaster the smile back on.

 

 

-

 

“Sit up straight,” his mama said, watching as he winced to the sound of his own bones cracking. “Don’t slouch, or they won’t respect you. You want them to respect you, don’t you?”

Zayn is the quiet one; that’s the only thing the media managed to get relatively right. He sleeps with Liam in their bunk on the tourbus, because someone has to share and he loves Liam, properly loves him, really. He thinks it’s true love, because you want to die for your true love, don’t you?

“What’re you thinking about?” Liam asks, his voice soft and quiet and raspy with exhaustion and overuse/disuse of the past few days, and Zayn smiles, smiles and smiles and smiles and it feels so  _ fake _ .

“My mom always wanted to die for love,” he answers softly. “But she never really found someone worth dying for.”

Liam nods thoughtfully, brushing a hand through Zayn’s tossed hair, for once not utterly perfect, like he always needs it to be. Not one strand out of place, and he’s made fun of and he’s vain but can you blame him; he’s  _ afraid _ . So afraid, so afraid of badness.

“Have you found someone?” Liam murmurs, and Zayn can feel a bit of his breath leave him. “What’re you thinking about?”

Zayn turns his head ever so slightly to look Liam in the eyes, his beautiful chocolate eyes of gentle and kindness and  _ caring  _ (his mama always said that nobody cared, so who’s right, Zayn wonders. Is Liam even the answer, like Zayn’s been hoping and praying for?); “You.”

It’s the answer to both questions, but only Zayn knows that.

 

 

-

 

“The world doesn’t care,” his mama said. Zayn’s hands were shaking and his lip was quivering as she looked over the scrape on his knee with bored, cold eyes. “Get used to it, and clean yourself up so there’s no blood on my carpets.”

Nodding was easy. If you nodded, nobody asked you any further; nod and smile, nod and smile, nod and smile, repeat over and over again. Just another day, his walls up and guards attentive. Personal questions; he avoided them, or he lied.

Whoever said lying was wrong; he’s alive because of it. He is still standing because his lips are sealed of truthful things.

Liam’s arms are wrapped around him, strong and steady, like Liam’s heartbeat pressed up against Zayn’s injured, shuddery one; space consists of skin and cloth and muscle and blood. Maybe some water. “Nobody cares,” Zayn will cry sometimes at night, “nobody even wants me, nobody wants to love me, nobody can see me, nobody sees me…”

Liam strokes his hair, presses his rosey lips to Zayn’s skin and tears and mouth; “You’re alright,” he whispers, “I care.” He pulls away and cups Zayn’s face in his hands, just so the boy will focus his glassy eyes on Liam; “To the world you may just be Zayn Malik of One Direction, but to me you’re the world.”

Zayn smiles; it’s real this time, what the  _ fuck _ .

 

 

-

 

“Love is a crock,” his mama said, and Zayn nodded and smiled, like he’d learned so well to do after sixteen years of useless life; he woke up dreading the day and fell asleep with a comfortable frown and cuts on his wrists. “If somebody says they love you, they’re lying. It doesn’t matter how good their skin feels on yours, or how many gifts they bring you, or how many damn songs they write in your honor. It doesn’t change a thing, they will never really care.”

So Zayn stopped dreaming of soulmates. He surrounded himself with pretty things, because maybe then he could find something beautiful enough to replace the eyes of someone looking at him like he’s everything. Because no one would ever actually glance his way; Liam did and suddenly Zayn’s hooked. He can remember thinking that nothing could ever compare to Liam’s eyes, not even his own perfectly tweaked reflection.

“Why do they ask you who you’re in love with?” Zayn asks Liam, in that timid voice he only uses when he doesn’t really want to know the answer. Liam kisses his temple and tangles their fingers together, so Zayn accepts the invitation and curls himself into Liam’s side; he fits perfectly, but everything about him is perfect, and  _ no _ , he can’t think that about Liam because perfect is boring and Liam isn’t boring; isn’t perfect broken? Zayn’s perfect, Zayn’s broken, Zayn’s perfect,  _ Be perfect like me,  _ and  _ Yes Mama.  _ “Why do they even want to know?”

Liam’s eyes, for once, become a little less bright, and Zayn’s heart slows to nearly a stop because he  _ caused _ that, didn’t he? He’s a bump in the road for Liam, he’s a nail in the coffin, he’s in the way, isn’t he? But Liam smiles at him, a little sadly, but it’s sad for him, sad for  _ Zayn _ , and no one is ever sad for him (has never been) but Liam is, he just is. He just is, he just  _ is _ everything.

“Because they want to know if I love her,” Liam answers, and Zayn’s eyes must ask the silent question; silence, silence and nod and smile and yes, don’t ever say no. “But I don’t, I love you, you should know.”

Zayn doesn’t look away with his own wide and scared eyes, but Liam doesn’t seem desperate for an answer; everyone’s also desperate for an answer, leaning forward in their seats as if that’ll make him stutter it any quicker; “I don’t. Love is a crock, my mama said.”

Liam nods thoughtfully, humming, and then he presses his mouth onto Zayn’s in another one of those soft kisses that Zayn tries his hardest not to melt into. “Hmm. Seems to me your mama says a lot of things.”

Zayn nods, and smiles, silent; he thinks,  _ She does. _

 

 

-

 

“Your life is worth nothing,” his mama said. She spat it, onto the tile floor just a sliver from his bare toes; don’t ask him what shoes are, he wouldn’t know. Zayn was curious, three and unaware of what she was still here for, then. “People will say it is; it’s not. If I weren’t here you’d be dead on some fucker’s doorstep. And I wouldn’t care.”

Zayn said nothing, his eyes downcast. His mama didn’t care, he knew, and he couldn’t yet describe the twisting feeling in his gut and the clunk of something sinking deep below; he didn’t have a word for hurt.

“Who do you live for, Zayn?” The bad men ask, their scowls and glares seemingly permanent, molded into their features, carved into their skin like Zayn’s nod and smile. Zayn doesn’t look up, he just mutters under his breath, and they dismiss him with cruel eyes and a jerk of their heads.

“What’d you answer?” Louis says quietly, after an hour of silence (silence is too loud, too noisy, turn it off,  _ turn it off! _ ). “Who?”

Zayn says nothing even now, he nods, a slight movement in the bustling of still bodies, and Louis sighs. “Him.”

Zayn nods again, to no one, as he curls in on himself and Liam isn’t there, he’s not there, he’s probably not coming back because why should Zayn live? “Him,” he whispers, and he’s about to plunge the knife into his heart when gentle hands grasp his, sweaty palms and slippery fingers that lower the sharp thing shakily; lips press against his in a desperate kiss, a sea of red cheeks and glassy eyes, unshed tears.

“Live for me,” Liam rasps, rocking them as he holds Zayn’s face in his hands. “You’ve got to live for me, Zayn.”

Zayn closes his eyes and stays silent, he nods and smiles and curses the tears that threaten to fall as Liam cradles him close to his muscled chest;  _ safe,  _ Zayn reminds himself,  _ safe,  _ but he’s closer to the edge than any of them thought, teetering on tiptoes.

 

 

-

 

“Home is where the heart is,” his mama said, and she scoffed. “Home’s a blasted metaphor. It means the place in your chest between your ribcage where a battered shell bounces around, trying to get a grip and hold on to something real that’s never actually going to be there. So you can give up hope of giving it to someone, because they’ll either stomp on it til it’s more black than blue or they’ll slam dunk it into the trash barrel in an alleyway along the dirty city streets. You’ve got no chance, honey bunch, so give it all up now.”

Zayn looked down at his hands, wrapped around a pristine white mug that held pure white milk, not the tiniest speck visible. Perfect, like old and broken boring things, the antiques stacked high upon shelves and tables in his bedroom, next to books and scribbled-on papers and spare pens run out of ink. He liked it up there, in dust and beautiful objects, like replacements for the irreplaceable.

Everythings he’ll never have, like Liam’s eyes always trained on him and hands that hold on tight and a heart that doesn’t rattle in between his bones and get beat. Too much to ask for, he knows, yet/but he doesn’t ask for much.

“Stay,” Liam mumbles, eyelids heavy with sleep as Zayn packs his bags to leave; he’s almost come too close to letting Liam in. Safe isn’t real, just like Zayn’s smile, just like Liam’s love.

Zayn steps forward just a little bit to bend down and kiss Liam’s hot temple, the tired boy’s fingers clutching his as if a lifeline. “Don’t wait for me,” he whispers, pulling back and tugging his hand away; he can’t. “I’m not coming home.”

“But home is where the heart is,” Liam protests weakly, too exhausted to fight for very long without drifting off, and Zayn is angry and sad and broken and perfect, he’s perfect.

“I gave that to you,” Zayn says. “I’m leaving it here, and you’ll destroy it, and you sound just like Mama.”

 

 

-

 

“If they ask you something,” his mama said, “say yes. You can’t take a chance that they’ll get angry. If they want your money, if they want your body, if they want  _ you _ , than you’ll let them take it. You’re not a person, you’re a toy for others to play with, their entertainment. And I don’t want you to say a word.”

The tiles of the floors were arranged in a pattern of black and white and beige, and they could form diamonds and squares and rectangles and triangles and all sorts of shapes, and a misshaped flower if he squinted hard enough. Zayn would know, because he’d spent all his life staring at them. In the bathroom, as tears dropped and he wiped/swept them away. In the kitchen, as he withstood his mother’s harsh words and cruel hands. In the entry hall, where he would sit with a hand on the doorknob and stare blankly out the mesh screen.

Liam was gentle, Liam is probably still gentle, and he won’t come for Zayn. He’s never asked if he can kiss Zayn, but Zayn lets him, because  _ don’t say no.  _ He doesn’t ever want to, because someone could get mad at him. And he doesn’t think he could bear someone being mad at him. Especially Liam; he wants to kiss Liam. He wants those pretty lips to cover his, to be kind and taste sweet and feel like the inside of rose petals, because how could he go on without his reason?

“Goddammit, Zayn,” Liam rasps when Zayn whispers this to him, and  _ shit _ , Zayn thought he was asleep. He won’t utter a word to someone awake, to someone alive, usually. There’s a stone for the only person who hasn’t listened to him, in the grassy field of angel rocks. Silent, he was told; silent, he stays. Nod and smile, nod and smile, repeat.

Liam sits up and pulls Zayn into his arms, a touch so caring and a hold so warm, and Zayn wants to stay here forever, “Do you really feel that way?”

Zayn nods, he smiles, “I’m fine.”

Liam shakes his head, but at least Liam came after him. Why, Zayn will never know.

 

 

-

 

“Don’t complain,” his mama said. Zayn had cocked his head, and his mother had frowned. “It’ll make you sound ungrateful, ungrateful for the pathetic excuse of a person you are, for the room to breathe you’ve been given. You’re not a china doll, so you don’t need protection. You’ve got lungs, so you’re fine. You’re fine, Zayn, fine. Don’t you ever dare tell me otherwise.”

Zayn picked up a book with his shaking hands, just like all those years ago; he was thirteen then (what used to be now, what was now). He wouldn’t slip on the wet floor as he shuffled away, trying to escape, because he was perfect. Perfect then, perfect now (now is still now, now).

The food Harry cooks isn’t to his liking, it’s too bland, and he’s sure it’s very good because it’s very pretty but Zayn is accustomed to other, better (in his opinion) things. He picks at his food, shoving it around on his plate and trying to make it seem like there’s less while silence resumes; Harry is chewing quietly and watching Zayn while Louis and Niall just eat and avoid everyone else’s eyes.

Suddenly there’s a hand on top of his, stilling it; it’s Liam’s so it’s soft and kind and gentle and he’s smiling at Zayn like the raven-haired boy is worth something; he’s worth  _ nothing _ , he’s been told so many times in so many ways.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” Liam says, his voice just above a whisper and silkier than a cloud, “you can say it, and we’ll make you something else.”

The others nod, as if to try and convince him, and Zayn smiles weakly, trying desperately to muster the facade back; he’s gone and let it fall again, just like he always promised he wouldn’t do. “I can’t complain,” he says, but it sounds fake and too cheery, even to his own ears, and Liam just presses a soft kiss to Zayn’s chapped and bitten lips.

“Yes you can,” Liam murmurs, and Zayn can hear mumbles of agreement from the others. “It’s alright to be unsatisfied, Zayn.”

Zayn shakes his head and Liam sighs, taking Zayn’s hand and gently leading him to the kitchen where he makes Zayn pick out something he actually wants to eat.

At least Zayn has learned to say no - wait, no, yes… always say yes, nod and smile… don’t complain.

 

 

-

 

“I’d better not see you cry,” his mama said, gripping his chin so he looked at her; she ignored the tears in his eyes and his whimpers. “Crying is for babies, and you’re not a baby. Crying shows that you care, and you don’t care. Crying is a weakness, and you can’t. Be. Weak.”

Zayn nodded vigorously; he couldn’t bring himself to smile this time. Her anger was clear and sharp as ice, like the kind frozen in her battered heart. Zayn disappeared into his room and lay down on his bed, staring at the blank wall and absentmindedly pressing his fingers to his bruises; some were old, some were new. New was fresh, because they happened when he was fresh (and to him, it was dead silent and he’d done nothing but what she wanted, but she said he was fresh. He asked what fresh was, he did once, and she gave him another fresh bruise, because talking back was fresh (he only asked a question, he thought).).

Liam is sleeping peacefully, so beautiful and strong and steady and next to  _ Zayn _ , because Liam belongs to  _ Zayn _ , and - and  _ how is that possible? _

And he can feel the tears welling, an all too familiar feeling, and he pushes them back, he wipes them away, and then a sob rips from his throat and he tries desperately to keep the other ones inside by covering his mouth with his hand, but then the tears begin to fall; he’s crumbling.

“Don’t cry,” Zayn whispers hoarsely. “Don’t cry, you can’t cry, dammit!” And Liam, beautiful, wonderful Liam wakes up and immediately wraps his arms around the trembling boy, nuzzling his nose into Zayn’s dark hair. If Zayn weren’t so broken, so perfect, maybe he could feel the kiss pressed there.

“You can cry, darling,” Liam says, voice hushed. “It’s okay to cry. You’ve fought enough, just let it go.”

Zayn tries not to, he really does, because even Liam can’t convince him that crying is okay, but then another sob comes out, stronger than before and it knocks his hand away; Zayn cries.

He shivers and breaks and fall apart, and Liam’s there to catch him and put him back together with the gentlest of hands; Liam even picks up the sharpest of shards, despite how many bleeding cuts they leave on him.

“Those’ll turn into scars,” Zayn chokes out, because he’s used shards of himself to cut himself on purpose; so maybe it’s a bit different. Liam doesn’t ask what he means, what’s going on in Zayn’s crazy head now, he just pulls Zayn closer.

“I don’t mind,” he whispers. “I’d take a million scars for you, Zayn, so I don’t mind.”

Zayn cries harder.

 

 

-

 

“Be perfect, Zayn,” his mama said, voice cold and cheekbones sharp. Her eyes were made up and showed no glass for others to break, but to Zayn they  _ were _ a mirror. And she was skinny, and dressed nicely, and sharpened into a diamond from coal, but Zayn could still see coal. She would never be beautiful to him, but she was perfect. “Be perfect like me. Don’t cry, don’t complain, say yes, nod and smile. Do you understand?”

Zayn couldn’t bring himself to say word in response; he loved her. No matter what anyone said, what  _ she _ said to  _ him _ , those harsh words of biting insults that pricked his skin like thorns of a rose to a human hand; his mother was a rose. A dead, black, wilting, lovely rose.

Liam is a chrysanthemum, because he lets Zayn cry and says Zayn’s mum is wrong. Liam is a daisy, because he’s the sun surrounded by puffy white clouds in Zayn’s greyish-blue sky. Liam is an iris, because he can see Zayn for who he really is, and for what he really needs. Liam is a blossom, because he helps Zayn grow. And Liam is a rose, a red one, because Zayn loves him.

Zayn doesn’t quite know what to do now, with Liam’s soft brown eyes on him, matched with that fond smile that Zayn has kissed so many times; “What?”

Liam comes a little closer, eyes crinkling at the corners as his smile becomes a little wider, “Nothing. Just… you. You’re so beautiful.”

Zayn almost believes him; he blurts, “I love you,” and immediately wants to take it back, but Liam just laughs quietly and kisses him.

“I love you too,” he says, and Zayn doesn’t know quite when this became his life.

“I’m perfect,” Zayn murmurs, and Liam cocks his head. How could Liam not think he’s arrogant, Zayn wonders, but he pushes that thought away. He’s become good at icing things out. “I’m perfect, because perfect things are broken.”

Liam’s smile becomes a little sadder, his eyes dimming, and he pulls Zayn closer to tilt Zayn’s chin up with his fingers and kiss his lips softly, for just a moment, real quick.

“Mmm,” Liam says, so quietly. Zayn still hates the silence. “Well, I think you’re beautiful. And nobody’s perfect, Zayn, I know that you don’t want to be perfect,” he leans down and presses a kiss to Zayn’s hair, mumbling the rest to the spot just above Zayn’s ear, “you don’t want to be perfect like her.”

Zayn lays his head on Liam’s shoulder, daring to wrap his arms loosely around Liam’s torso. Liam hugs him back, ever so gentle, ever so careful; Zayn is ever so breakable.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to be perfect like her.”

 

 

-

 

“Perfect,” his mama said. “Be perfect like me. And everyone will tell you that you shouldn’t listen to me, but I’m your mother, aren’t I? I’m your mother, and you only listen to me.”

Zayn nodded, with a smile, “Yes Mama.”


End file.
